The Fallback Read online

  Me: And karma, being the bitch that she is, taught me to stop after choking on my own words too many times.

  Felicity: You’re welcome to come over. I have my pre-kiddo clothes still in my closet, but they’re probably all out of style. #momlife

  Me: #idontcare #yourethebest #hashtagsarelame

  Felicity: Well, you owe this *lame* hashtag user a venti now.

  Me: Sold.

  Felicity: Is everything okay?

  Me: It will be. I’ll see you in the morning. Kiss the kiddos goodnight for me.

  Felicity: !!!! It will be?!?!? What kind of response is that? What happened?

  Me: I’m fine. Promise.

  Felicity: ...you’ll tell me in the morning?

  Me: Bright and early.

  2

  My best friend opens her front door with a frown of speculation. I know she’s struggling to remain silent as I lift the cinnamon rolls and coffee tray in the air to show I brought them as promised. She steps aside, her youngest, Theo, on one hip.

  Theo wiggles and reaches for me, his compact two-year-old body a force of muscle and will. He can’t pronounce his Rs yet, so it sounds like “book” when he cries my name under the protests of his mom, who’s working to explain my hands are too full. I set the contents of my bargaining tools on a bookcase filled with toys and reach for Theo.

  “My hands are never too full for my main man. How’s my little dude? I brought you an apple juice and cinnamon roll.” I kiss the top of his head, his curly, blond hair tickling my nose. He goes still as his small arms wrap around my shoulders.

  He doesn’t respond, just grips tighter when Felicity reaches to take him back. “Come sit with Sissy and Daddy in the kitchen and have some breakfast.”

  The promise of sugar has him squirming to get down before he bolts to the kitchen.

  “You can head up to my closet. I’ll be right up,” Felicity says, following Theo.

  I step over a book, a stuffed animal, and a toy car as I climb the stairs, stopping in Felicity’s room. My best friend’s house once looked like it belonged on the pages of a magazine, nothing short of stylish perfection. Now, a queen bed sits beside a king bed, a half million stuffed animals dotting both surfaces and the floor. The dressers are covered in clutter, and clothes are strewn around the room. Crayon and watercolor paintings are taped to the walls and to the frames of expensive pieces of art I hunted down with her nearly a decade ago when she and her husband, Dan, bought the place.

  “I’m confused. Why are you borrowing clothes?” Felicity asks, rounding the corner and making me jump.

  “I just realized what to get you for Christmas,” I tell her.

  Her eyes narrow, waiting for me to continue.

  “A laundry hamper.”

  Felicity’s frown deepens before her struggle to maintain it breaks and she shakes her head in an attempt to rid her grin. “If you get me a hamper, our friendship is over.”

  “You can’t get rid of me that easily.” My tone is light and teasing, and though I know our relationship has no correlation to Gabe’s and mine, her words tug at a stitch. Without continuing the conversation, I head into her walk-in closet.

  “Seriously, though, why are you borrowing clothes? Your wardrobe beats mine in spades.”

  I release a deep breath and run my fingers along the fabrics lining one side of her closet. Felicity’s taste in clothing has changed drastically over the past couple of years since motherhood. Her love for high fashion transformed into a penchant for pants with elastic waistbands and oversized shirts that don’t require any special needs for washing or care. “I just need something for today,” I clarify once more.

  “Brooke…”

  I eye a green blouse I can’t recall having seen before and pull it free.

  “You can have that one,” Felicity tells me. “I got it last year as an inspiration shirt, but now it just depresses me.”

  “An inspiration shirt?”

  Felicity lifts a shoulder. “Inspiration to get back to my pre-baby weight.”

  I shake my head, baffled because though her clothes have transitioned for comfort and necessity, my best friend still looks like a runway model, her long, dark hair and bright-blue eyes creating a contrast that is both shocking and unique. Her small nose and rounded lips are surrounded by light freckles that have always made me jealous. “You look fantastic. You need to stop berating yourself.”

  She holds my stare for only a second and then glances away. “The pants and skirts that will fit you are on the other side of my purses,” Felicity says. “So, why are you borrowing clothes only for today?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, is everything okay?”

  “Things are fine.”

  “Brooke…” Felicity pauses. I know she’s waiting for me to look at her. Just like I know that no matter how many times I assure my best friend she’s gorgeous, she allows lies and memories to taint that belief. “What’s going on?”

  I reach for a hanger with a pair of skinny jeans and reluctantly look at my best friend. “Gabe and I broke up.”

  Felicity’s eyes grow impossibly round. “What do you mean you broke up?”

  “I mean it’s over.”

  “Since when? How? What happened? Are you okay? Oh my God. Of course you’re not okay. How are you so calm right now?”

  “A client canceled yesterday, so I went home early, and he had another woman there.” My voice is surprisingly calm as I recount last night as I would the facts about a client. There’s no emotion, no pain.

  “Another woman?” Her voice grows with equal parts accusation and alarm. “Were they…?”

  “Yeah…” I press my lips together, the taste of bile fresh in my thoughts.

  “Brooke! Oh my God! I can’t believe it. Gabe was supposedly one of the good guys. I’m so sorry. How can I help? Do you want to stay here? You can stay in the guest room. Do you want help tracking this woman down so we can shave her head? Tell me.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not mad at her.” When Felicity’s mouth drops with repulsion, I quickly shake my head. “I mean, I don’t like her, but she didn’t know me. It wasn’t her I had trusted.”

  “You can’t go into work today. You need to call in sick. Eat ice cream and watch bad movies and bad daytime television and just mope. I’ll mope with you.”

  I smile, knowing she would. “I don’t want to mope. I want to go to work. I need to work right now.”

  “But, Brooke—”

  “If I stay home and mope, this breakup will just take more from me.”

  Felicity sucks in a deep breath and holds it before she nods and enters the closet, where she begins rummaging through several items of clothing, taking numerous garments in her hands.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Giving you options so that if you decide you’re not ready to go get your things, you aren’t forced to.”

  I shake my head. “I love you and appreciate you doing this, but I need to go and get my stuff. I don’t want to use my grandma’s razor or makeup, and I need socks and underwear and shoes.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “Stop,” she tells me. “We can rent a U-Haul, and go get all your things. We’ll get everything.”

  I grin, desperate to not allow the sadness to pull me under. “As long as I get to drive.”

  Felicity rolls her eyes. “You can’t remember a single pedicure date, but the one time I hit something with a U-Haul you can’t forget about.”

  “You peeled the roof back from a covered parking unit!”

  She gives me a pointed look. “The mirrors don’t show the top of the truck. Maybe if they did, I would’ve stopped.”

  “You mean the mirror you took out a speed limit sign with?”

  Her anger begins dissipating, her lips twitching with humor. “That sign was way too close to the road.”

  “Way too close,” I tease.

  F
elicity’s wide, blue eyes shine with humor, and a visible shift happens as her smile becomes less humorous and more melancholy. “You don’t have to spend the day wallowing, but if you want to talk about it, you know I’m here, right?”

  I suck in a deep breath and nod. “It just seems surreal at this point, you know? I mean, we’ve been together for so long.”

  She nods. “Did he say anything? Does he know you saw him?”

  “I think I gasped. Or maybe I yelled first? I don’t remember. But they both knew I was there and stopped.”

  Felicity covers her face with a palm and then slowly slides it down to her neck, regret visible across her features. “Did he lie? Say it was a mistake? Beg for you to forgive him?”

  “He seemed apologetic that I found out the way I did, but no. He’s done.”

  “He doesn’t get to be done. You’re done.” Her eyes sharpen. “You get dressed. I’m going to go make you some breakfast and a huge coffee so you can kick today in the nutsack and make it your bitch.”

  Before I can object, Felicity strides out of the room, purpose widening her steps.

  “I’m not mad at today,” I call after her.

  3

  I shift in my seat, readjusting my seat belt. It’s strange how wearing someone else’s clothing can make you feel like another person. Or maybe it’s because I’m driving to work as a single woman for the first time in over six years that has my own skin feeling too tight.

  Once at work, I pull into my usual parking spot, my belly feeling tight. Nerves are coursing through me along with the waffles and fruit Felicity watched me eat every bite of. I step inside the doors of Glitter and Gold, and a sense of calmness and familiarity carries me to my desk. I had never thought while growing up that being an event planner would be my profession. I never knew exactly what I wanted to be, what I wanted to do. It wasn’t until Felicity was planning her wedding and I began assisting her, making the arrangements and planning the venue, that I met Catherine Ellison, owner and CEO of Glitter and Gold. She attended Felicity’s wedding, albeit without an invitation, and offered me a job the following day. I accepted and began as her personal assistant. My duties consisted of random requests that have become more bizarre over time, even with several promotions and pay raises that have led me to being one of the most sought-after wedding planners in Chicago nearly a decade later. However, Catherine still often treats me like her assistant, sending me tasks and deadlines on weekends and evenings that have me working more often than not. It’s the knowledge of so few things changing here that allows me to forget about Gabe for a moment as I get seated at my desk and open my email.

  Four emails from Catherine instruct me to check my voice mail, each with more exasperation. I know they aren’t urgent, if they were, she would have called my cell phone. With a heavy sigh, I check the messages, knowing she’s passing an issue to me that I don’t have the energy for today.

  There’s a litany of messages, all complaints and frustrations from a bride regarding a coworker, Serena. Issues ranging from not returning phone calls to concerns about invitations, food, and flowers for her upcoming wedding. The bride is demanding Catherine’s attention or a full refund. I run a hand down my face before standing and heading to Serena’s office. While Catherine can be difficult and time-consuming, Serena is my migraine. She was hired by Catherine after moving to the area from LA with a battalion of stories about Hollywood and events she participated in hosting. Catherine’s love for glamour and money blinded her to the clear exaggerations, and now I spend too much of my time cleaning up her messes.

  Serena’s sitting at her desk, her long fingernails painted a bright red, her platinum-blond hair teased and hair-sprayed into perfection. She smiles. “I love your shirt. The color is great on you.”

  Though she’s a headache, and completely underqualified, she’s too kind and naive to dislike.

  “Thanks.” Her compliment should be benign, but today it feels more profound. I swallow the instant lump in my throat and thread my fingers in front of me. “Sorry to bombard you this morning, but I want to touch base with you in regard to the Gilbert wedding.”

  “The Gilbert wedding?”

  I blink a dozen times, waiting for recollection to catch up with her.

  It doesn’t.

  “The bride’s name is Anna, and the wedding is June second. I received a couple of messages Catherine has forwarded me. The bride seems a little concerned because she hasn’t heard from us in a few weeks…”

  Serena’s eyebrows soar high with surprise. “Gilbert?”

  I nod.

  Serena remains still, her eyes rolled back as she works to recall the bride in question.

  “Do you think you might have an open file for them? I checked the database and didn’t see anything.”

  Serena rummages through files piled high around her desk. I’m pretty certain it’s her three-inch nails that keep her from inputting records, though I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she doesn’t know how to.

  “Gilbert?” she says again.

  I nod and step beside her to help her look through the files.

  “The name doesn’t sound familiar…” Her voice turns exhausted, likely recognizing she wasn’t ready to plan events alone, let alone weddings where brides can oftentimes be demanding and sometimes unrealistic.

  “Here it is.” I ease a folder free from a stack and hand it to her. It already feels like I’m overstepping. I loathe the times Catherine asks me to get involved with the way another employee is handling their accounts.

  “Crap,” she sighs the word and then reaches up as though to run a hand through her teased hair before she stops. “I somehow forgot all about this lady. I was supposed to be reserving the venue, and she wants Concorde Banquets.”

  I work to keep my features impassive, but can tell I’ve failed as she drops her head back with a far more dramatic sigh.

  “The event coordinator at Concorde owes me a favor,” I tell her. “Let me see if I can grease some wheels. Can I borrow the file so I have the dates for the wedding and rehearsal?”

  She nods with tight, jerking movements that seem to shake loose a sense of guilt that builds in my stomach. “You’re a lifesaver! Thank you!” She clutches one of my hands between both of hers and squeezes. “I owe you. I owe you so much! Thank you!”

  Her hands fall from mine, and she reaches for the file and extends it to me. I smile in return, and though I think we both know it’s far from genuine, I’m relieved to have an excuse to force some sort of emotion.

  I head back to my office and find five new text messages. My traitorous mind instantly wonders if they’re from Gabe. I’m reading extravagant apologies and promises from him before I even reach for my phone, certain I will find both and more because if I’m feeling this awkward and out of sorts, surely he has to as well.

  My hands tremble like an addict’s as I reach for my phone. I hate feeling so unglued, so naive, and so unbalanced due to the past twelve hours.

  My heart screams in my head, and my chest grows tight as I read down the list.

  Felicity sent three messages.

  And Sue sent the other two.

  Sue.

  Sue Jennings.

  Gabe’s mom.

  I scroll down to Sue’s messages first, knowing I won’t be able to think straight without knowing what she’s said.

  Sue: Hi, dear. Just wondering if there’s anything you’ve been wanting for your birthday?

  Sue: I know it’s several months away, but you know us planners! ;)

  My birthday? Offense mounts surprise, tangling together in a web of resentment and anger that dulls the disappointment from again not hearing from Gabe.

  I scroll to Felicity’s messages.

  The first is a selfie of her in front of a U-Haul.

  Felicity: I’m ready whenever you are! #WeGotThis

  Felicity: I love you, Books!!!!

  Felicity and I have been best friends since we were five and fought over which
of the fruit-scented markers smelled best in kindergarten. Our friendship grew and flourished, and we fought over slightly more mature subjects like sour cream and onion versus barbecue potato chips, Gilmore Girls or Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and who was hotter—Nick Carter or Justin Timberlake. Our friendship has prevailed through breakups, her parents getting divorced, and our sophomore year of high school, when I was invited to senior prom by her crush—which I didn’t attend, but she was still angry at me for—and her moving away to college for two years. Our many years of friendship have formed a bond that often leads me to believe she can sense my emotions even when we’re not near one another.

  Me: What time do you think we should go? I don’t want to run into him.

  Felicity: Want me to message him and ask that he give us a couple of hours after you’re off?

  My desire to say yes is so strong I type and erase the response three times before I erase it a final time.

  Me: No, I’ll send him a message. If you do it, he’ll think I’m scared or heartbroken or worse, embarrassed.

  Felicity: You realize you DESERVE to feel all of that and more, right?

  Me: I do, but I’m still processing what I’m feeling, and the last thing I need right now is to involve him in this equation.

  Felicity: Fair point. If you change your mind, let me know. I can make up an excuse to text him.

  I send her a heart emoji and then have to use both hands to grip my phone as I scroll to Gabe’s thread of messages. I skim through several, covering the past few days. Messages talking about dinners and weekend plans, how work was going. I scroll farther, looking for evidence of things going awry between us, an underlying tension or resentment, hints of animosity about how much I work and how little I partake in many of the customary domestic chores. I go back three months before stopping, my eyes laden with tears and my heart sitting heavily within my chest. Again, I look like a junkie, working to grip my phone between my unsteady hands as I text him.